Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ been home…maybe the guy wouldn’t have done it. Maybe my being there would have scared him away. Or, I could have fought him. I could have helped her, I know I—”

      “You could have gotten killed, too. You probably would have.” The cop looked him straight in the eyes. “Listen to me, Victor. This man, whoever he is, is a vicious killer. The kind not likely to be scared off by a boy. This was not a random act of violence. He came home with your mother, planning to kill her. He’s smart. We know that because he didn’t leave any evidence. Because he made sure he wasn’t seen. Our guess is, he’s done this before. If you had been there, he would have adjusted his plan to include killing you. Those are the facts, Victor. Ugly as they are.”

      “But, I could have—”

      “No. You couldn’t. If you had been in that apartment, you’d be dead. Period.”

      “At least I would have been there, at least I could have tried to help her. At least she would have known that I…that I—” His voice broke, and embarrassed, he looked away.

      “She knew you loved her, Victor. And she wouldn’t have wanted you dead.” He patted Santos’s clenched hands. “Let’s go talk to Detective Patterson. Maybe there’s something new.”

      “I doubt it. All I’ve gotten from him is the runaround.”

      Today was no different. More runaround. More bullshit. Santos stared at the detective, fury rampaging through him. He longed to lunge at the man. It would feel good, even though the burly officer would probably have him on his knees and cuffed before he landed the first blow.

      But if he did manage to get in just one blow, it would be worth it, Santos thought, itching to try. It would be worth any amount of pain or punishment, if he could erase the man’s arrogant, disinterested expression for just one moment.

      “Look,” Patterson was saying, “I know she was important to you, but I have other, more pressing cases. If we find anything, we’ll act on it.”

      Santos jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. “You son of a bitch, you’re not even trying. The only way you’re going to get something, is if the killer waltzes in here and confesses.”

      The detective folded his arms across his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “It happens.”

      Jacobs put his hand on Santos’s arm, as if sensing how close to violence he was, then shot his fellow officer a narrow-eyed glance. “Victor, we are trying. I promise you. But there’s nothing for us to go on. I told you, this guy was smart.”

      “So you’re just going to let him go free? He’s out there. Don’t you care, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

      “Yeah, it does. I hate it. And so does Patterson. But all we can do is follow the leads we have and wait.”

      Santos shook his head. “Wait? What do you—”

      “He’ll do it again,” Patterson interrupted dismissively, returning to the seat behind his desk. “He’ll do it again, and maybe he’ll make a mistake. And then we’ll get him.”

      Santos stared at the detective, disgust and hatred roiling inside him. “Why bust your asses on this, the guy’s only killing hookers. Right?” He fisted his fingers. “You think she was nothing. You think she was just a nobody hooker, so her murder doesn’t matter. Well, it does matter.” Santos took a step toward Patterson’s desk. “She was my mother, you bastard. I care. I give a shit.”

      “Victor—” Jacobs caught his arm “—come on. I’ll buy you a Coke.”

      Santos jerked his arm free of the cop’s grasp, not taking his gaze from Patterson’s. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to find out who did this. Do you understand? I’m going to find out who killed my mother, and I’m going to make him pay.”

      The detective made a sound of annoyed exasperation. “What can you do, Victor? You’re a kid.” He shook his head. “You’ll end up getting yourself killed. Leave the police work to us.”

      Santos bristled at both the man’s words and tone. “I would leave it to you, if you were doing anything.”

      The detective’s jaw tightened, all traces of understanding gone from his expression. “Look, I’ve had it with you. We’re doing all we can, now beat it. I’ve got work to.”

      “No problem, Detective.” Santos took a step closer to the officer’s desk, feeling like his equal, no longer intimidated by the man’s size, his position. The feeling was heady, empowering. Suddenly, he understood what it was to be a man instead of a boy. “But remember this, I don’t know how or when, but I’m going to find the bastard who killed her, and I’m going to make him pay.” He placed his hands on the desk, his gaze still unflinching on the other man’s. “And that’s a promise, Detective Patterson.”

Part 3 Glory

       Chapter 8

       New Orleans, Louisiana 1974

      To seven-year-old Glory Alexandra St. Germaine, the world was both a magical and frightening place. A place filled with everything a girl could want: beautiful dresses with lace, ribbons and bows; fine dolls with silky hair that she could brush; riding lessons and her own pony; real china tea sets for the parties she gave in the gazebo, and anything else she might point to and say she desired.

      Her daddy was a part of that world, the most magical and wonderful thing of all. When she was with him, she was certain nothing ugly or unhappy could touch her. With her daddy, she felt safe and so special—like she was the most special girl ever. He called her his precious poppet, and although she thought the name too babyish for a soonto-be third-grader and complained whenever he called her that in front of other people, secretly she liked it.

      Her mother never called her by anything but her given names.

      Glory shifted on the hard wooden chair, her bottom numb from sitting so long in the corner. Her corner. The bad-girl corner.

      Glory sighed and stubbed the toe of her mary jane against the gleaming wooden floor, careful not to make a scuff. Her mother would inspect the area after releasing Glory from her punishment, just to make sure she hadn’t been up to mischief during her penance. After all, her time in the corner was to be spent on prayer and self-reflection. Her mother had told her that at least a million times. “Glory Alexandra St. Germaine,” her mother would say, “you sit in that corner and think about what you’ve done. You sit there and think about what the Lord expects from His good little girls.”

      Glory sighed again. Other mothers called their daughters sweetheart or darling or love. She had heard them. Glory drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory, trying to recall even one time her mother had called her by one of those sweet names.

      As always, she drew a blank.

       Because her mother didn’t love her.

      Glory brought her knees to her chest and laid her head against them. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close out her thoughts as easily, wishing she could shut out the truth. But she couldn’t, and her thoughts made her feel afraid. And sad. They changed her world from a wonderful, magical place, to one that was dark and confusing. The one that frightened.

      Many СКАЧАТЬ